The Spirit Ring (39 page)

      
He remembered staring up the length of Ferrante's shining sword, in the castle garden. Now,
that
had been simple.

      
Awkwardly, he slipped his free hand around Fiametta's waist, leaned forward, and kissed her. Their noses bumped, and he half-missed her mouth. Her big brown eyes widened, and he waited in resignation for her recoil.

      
Instead she kissed him back. Vigorously. And she managed to hit the target square. His arm tightened joyously around her shoulders. Her hand closed firmly over the silver head of her snake-belt. It felt strange, kissing through a bruised grin. When he broke off, her eyes were alight.
I did something right!
Thur thought in delight.
I wonder what it was?

      
But before he could explore further, she jumped up. Considering his battered physical condition, this was perhaps just as well, She bent over and dropped a kiss on his forehead. "Go to
sleep
, Thur."

      
At least she left still smiling, a mysterious girl smile. Thur lay back. This time, sleep came almost simultaneously with the darkness.

*****

      
He woke to an uncertain gray daylight seeping through the room's half-opened shutters. Creakily, he sat up. He hadn't been this sore since the day after the cave-in and flood at the mine. But he felt much better than last night. The sick dizziness was gone from his head. Still, he decided, another handful of that ointment would be welcome. He swung his bare legs out of the little bed.

      
At least he wasn't going to have to wear the quilt. Laid across the bed were clothes, of a sort, a threadbare man's gown of time-softened dark wool. Thur slipped it on over his head. It had clearly been made for a smaller fellow, probably Prospero Beneforte, for the hem, meant to brush the floor in a dignified scholarly sweep, rode at Thur's calves, and the sleeves wouldn't fit over his arms at all. He left the sleeves on the bed and tied a bit of cord around his waist to make a sort of tunic. He peeked out the window into the walled garden behind the house. Yes, there was the outhouse. The grayness of the sky was not dawn after all, but a steely midmorning haze. Had he slept too long? Worried, he walked into the kitchen, then stopped short.

      
A strange woman wearing a cap and apron and holding a wooden spoon turned from the blue-tiled stove to glance at him without surprise. "Ah. The young man." She gave him a cordial but measuring nod, as if he were a bolt of cloth she was considering purchasing, but was doubtful of the fastness of his dye. She was sturdy rather than stout, of middle years.

      
"Er," said Thur.

      
"The porridge will be a few moments yet." She pointed with her spoon to a black iron pot atop the stove. "There'll be a dried apple tart sweetened with honey, after. A lot of tart, not much apple, but one must make do. And I brew a posset of herbs that's better to drink in the morning than that strong red wine, which is all we have in the house. There is no ale." She nodded firmly, then bent to tease open the iron door to the stove's firebox with her spoon handle and poke briefly at the coals.

      
Thur's mouth watered; the odors were detectable.

      
"You'll be wanting the outhouse first, I expect. Right out there." She waved the spoon vaguely toward an iron-bound door that led into the garden.

      
"Yes, I was heading there, uh, ma’am." Thur paused. "My name is Thur Ochs."

      
"Poor Captain Uri's brother from Bruinwald, yes, I know."

      
"Are you by chance Ruberta?"

      
"The Master's housekeeper, yes. Or so I was, before those thieving, murdering Losimons broke in upon us." She frowned tensely. "Crime upon crime... Prospero Beneforte was not an easy man to work for, but he was a great man, not another like him in Montefoglia. Run along now. When you get back, wash your hands in that basin yonder and go fetch Fiametta to eat."

      
"Where is Madonna Beneforte?"

      
"Somewhere about the house, trying to find what of her Papa's tools those cursed robbers somehow overlooked.

      
Thur did as he was told, returning through the kitchen to the courtyard. Their prisoner lay on a blanket, ungagged but asleep, a cheap wineskin clutched to his chest. Not the good red wine, Thur guessed. Someone had been out foraging since last night. Fiametta, probably. She must have fetched Ruberta. Thur hoped she'd had the sense to take Tich with her for protection. Not that a boy with a knife would be much help against swordsmen.

      
He stepped onto the flagstones in the entryway. Uri was not there. He glanced into the room on his right, which had its own fireplace in the corner, and rugs and chairs, clearly where important guests or clients were received. A sheeted shape lay upon a makeshift bier of boards laid across two trestles. Thur sighed, entered, and lifted the sheet to look upon his brother and, frankly, to check for rot. He was touched when he discovered that Uri had been decently dressed, in more of Prospero Beneforte's leftovers, knit hose, a shirt, a short tunic, not new or fine—or the soldiers would have taken them—but arrayed with care. The women's work, no doubt. Vitelli's preservation spell appeared to be holding. He covered his brother again and crossed the hall to check the workroom opposite.

      
Fiametta sat perched on a high stool, her elbows planted on the worktable. She had not taken time to change her own clothes, but still wore her ruined velvet with the outer sleeves lost. Thur wondered if she'd taken time to sleep. Open upon the table in front of her was a large leather-bound book, and scattered in a circle about it was a litter of papers and parchments. She was frowning fiercely as she read.

      
She looked up at the sound of his footsteps. "Thur. You were right. I found them." Her face was haggard.

      
"Where?" He came to her side.

      
"Did you notice the little corner room with the two windows, off Papa's bedroom, that he had fixed for a study?"

      
"Yes. Vitelli did, too. He had it stripped out. I—the feeling was very strong in there, so I made sure not to look very hard."

      
"The ceiling is covered with squares of wood with rosettes carved in the centers."

      
"We tapped them all. They all sounded solid. We even pried a couple down, then I persuaded the Losimon guard that they were all the same."

      
"If you'd pried them all down, you would have found it. If you turn one of the rosettes, it releases a latch, and a square comes down—it's the bottom of a box. Not a very big box. It was crammed with all this. No wonder it sounded solid." Her hand opened to wave at the papers. "Papa would have been in serious trouble if these had ever been found."

      
Thur cleared his throat. "A burning matter?"

      
"Not... quite, I think. Depending on the prejudices against Florentines of the Inquisitor. But enough to endanger his license and his livelihood. There are recipes for spells... records of experiments... journal entries about two night trips to graveyards, though the results seem not to have been satisfactory. There is a complete account of what I take to be the casting of the great spirit ring for the lord of the Medici, with a record of payments, though there are no names, just initials. But the dates match the last time Papa lived in Florence. Dangerous evidence against men who yet live. Papa seems to have done some things with animals that were most questionable. Not just rings. Far beyond rings! My poor bunny. Here"—she opened to a page in the book densely scrawled with Latin—"is an account of how he invested the spirit of one of my rabbits, to animate a brass hare he cast. Its nose twitched, it moved —" Her finger stopped at a line, and she translated, "'It hopped upon my worktable for a quarter of an hour before its spirit was consumed and my spell failed. The stiffness of the cooling brass seemed to tire it more quickly. Next time I shall attempt to keep the casting hot to improve fluidity.' Dear God, Thur, it's incredible! And he never so much as let on—I mean, this very table! And we must have eaten that same rabbit for stew, after! And I remember the exquisite detail of that brass hare—it sat upon his windowsill for a year and a half, until the Losimons looted it." Horror, pride, and exasperation mingled in her face. Her hand pressed possessively upon the notebook, whether to contain or retain it Thur was not entirely certain.

      
"What should we do with these notes, then? Turn them over to the Abbot? Your father is beyond earthly prosecution, I think."

      
"If we can. If we all live. I—there are things here—there is a lifetime's thought and work bound up in these pages. I could not bear to see them destroyed, but—Thur, the possibilities are horrid. Vitelli would not limit himself to rabbits! Suppose he decided to make an army of brass soldiers, spirit slaves? Papa speculates—an army of
golems
, he calls them; I do not know that word; I don't think it's even Latin. Papa danced so delicately, to try to use this magic power without damning himself, but others would see only the power, and reach for it regardless." She took a deep breath. "I'd give the book to Monreale before I'd see it destroyed. But I'd burn it myself before letting it fall into Ferrante's or Vitelli's black hands."

      
"All Montefoglia is falling into their hands," said Thur bitterly. "And nobody seems able—or willing—to stop them. I tried, God help me. And I failed. Even with a cowardly knife to the back. With a sledgehammer I might have done some good. You don't need me, Fiametta. You need a hero, like Uri, trained to the sword. The wrong brother lies dead in the next room."

      
"Thur, don't blame yourself! Lord Ferrante has been a soldier in the field for twenty years! How could you expect to best him in anything like single combat?"

      
"Lord Pia held his own, for a little. We almost had it, between us! Till I deserted him, left him nailed to the wall like a martyr surrounded by his enemies. But it was close, Fiametta. Lord Ferrante is not invincible. Not till his army gets here, anyway. Tonight, tomorrow." Thur grimaced.

      
"Not tonight," said Fiametta. "Ruberta says the rumors in the marketplace have it that the Losimons are held up getting their cannon across the ford at the border. But tomorrow—tomorrow they may be here." Wearily, Fiametta rubbed her face. "I found Ruberta this morning at her sister's. I thought that was where she must have gone, if she'd lived. She told me what happened here. When the soldiers came, that idiot Teseo panicked and unbarred the door to them. Ruberta barely got over the back wall with her life. Well, it saved our poor door from being battered in, I suppose, and made no difference in the long run,"

      
"Oh. Speaking of Ruberta. She says to come eat."

      
Fiametta sighed. "I suppose we must. To keep up our strength. Our strength to run away, if nothing else." Her face crumbled; she brought her clenched hand down on the tabletop with a bang, making the notebook jump. "
No
," she cried. "I don't
want
to run away! This house is the only dowry I have left. Ferrante's bravos have taken everything they could pry loose. I will
not
marry dowerless like a beggar's brat… like a slave..." Then she just cried.

      
"Fiametta... Fiametta..." Thur opened his hands, hardly daring to touch those shaking shoulders. "Your talents, your art and magic, are dowries in themselves. Any man must see, if he isn't a complete fool. And you're too good to wed a fool. Though I would wed you in a moment. But I haven't got a penny, either. I haven't even got any clothes or shoes! If we could live in Bruinwald, I could go back to the mines or the forge. I admit, there's not much call for goldsmiths in Bruinwald."

      
Fiametta raised a tear-stained face. "But... wouldn't you
like
to live here, Thur? I could take over Papa's shop, in a small way at first, but most of the tools are left—you could haul the wood, and move the furnaces, and carry out the big projects, and be my h-h-husband; the Guild Council would issue
you
the shop permits in a minute. As a minor orphan, the Guild would control my property, but if I were married, you would. And, and Ruberta could still come cook, and we could be happy here!"

      
Thur was taken aback by all the practical detail embedded in this picture of wedded bliss. She must have been thinking about it a lot. He'd scarcely dared let himself go beyond the vaguest physical longing—he had to admit, it was a wonderful house, as far above a miner's cottage as, as Montefoglia Castle was beyond a goldsmith's mansion. There were a lot of repairs to be done after the looting, of course. He could do repairs; his hand and eye were clever enough for that. "I'd like it fine," he said. His mother would be astonished for him to marry so well, so soon.... "Could my mother come live here? Bruinwald winters are so cold and lonely." Yes, sooner or later, it must be his burden to tell her about Uri's fate. His stomach knotted at the thought.

      
Fiametta blinked. "Well, there's lots of room..." And more doubtfully, "Do you think she would like me?"

      
"Yes," said Thur firmly. He saw his mother dandling a grandchild on her knee, as Fiametta chinked away at some elegant goldwork, Ruberta cooked, and he ran a furnace, pouring pewter platters and candlesticks and other sturdy, practical things.

      
The colored vision faded at the thought of the advancing tramp of Losimon troops. Fiametta shared that dread; the light faded from her eyes. "All for nothing, if Ferrante wins," she sighed.